A Study in B Flat
by Sorrel Forbes
Summary: In which Sherlock is a violinist and consulting composer who writes the pieces his clients are too dim to ask for, and John is an ex-army doctor and handy amateur clarinettist. Together they make music. A story containing deductive inferences, music for adrenaline junkies, and the development of an unforeseen relationship. Pre-slash.
1. Violin or Viola?

John's fingers prod dispassionately at thin white shoulders as he positions his stethoscope. The pattern of tightness and knotting is one he's familiar with, and prompted by a flash of insight, he is able to identify the scent of lingering rosin dust. He hears his voice ask, "Violin, or viola?" before he even realises he's thinking aloud. He hopes he hasn't made his patient uncomfortable.

The manSherlock Holmessnaps around on his stool, and pins him with a penetrating look. John can't help but see the expected discolouration just under the left side of his chin. Unexpectedly, Sherlock doesn't seem displeased, but John feels fidgety under the weight of his gaze.

"You didn't know," says Sherlock. "But you saw; or rather, you felt.  
Interesting."

In the end he doesn't answer John's question. He just turns back around and lets him finish his examination as though the awkward interlude had never happened.

Later, when John has finished explaining his recommended treatment plan, and Sherlock has waved him off with an irritatingly indifferent air, John suddenly finds himself being addressed with renewed intensity.

"Dr Watson. John. I must see you again."

"There's not much point making another appointment now," says John. "If your congestion hasn't cleared up in a week or two you can call back later, but I think you'll be fine."

Sherlock hands him a business card as he leaves. "That's not what I meant. 221B Baker Street, tomorrow, seven o'clock. Bring your clarinet."

* * *

The next day, John consults the clock as he finally sees out his last patient. He's not running too far behind for once, but he's in no more hurry to head back to his dismal flat than he ever is.

He takes his mug into the break room as is his custom, and while he busies his hands with the practised motions of tea-making, he considers his patient from the previous day. The violinist (he supposes)Sherlock Holmesand his unexpected invitation. Command? No; invitation. And if he's honest with himself, John wants to go. It's a bit irregular, going to visit a patient socially, but not necessarily a problem. He can always pass him off to another doctor if he needs to. So. He'll go. But in the meantime, he has at least an hour before he needs to head out. He sits back down at his desk with his cuppa, turns on the radio, and starts sorting through his personal emails.

His clarinet case sits innocuously in the corner of the room as if it didn't signify that John had already made his decision long before he'd addressed any misgivings that he might have (should have) had.

* * *

John's first impressions of 221B Baker Street are of chaos, disorder, and pages of a handwritten score Sellotaped together, precariously bridging the gap between two heavy-duty music stands.

Sherlock himself is seated in the corner of the room at a chipboard table loaded high with papers and other paraphernalia. He's scribbling furiously, and addresses John without even pausing to look up at him.

"Get out your instrument," he orders.

John wonders how he manages, with such an appalling manner, to be so charismatic.

He finds a relatively clear space on the floor and flicks open his case. Hesitates before reaching for a clarinet, guessing that the obvious choice is not necessarily a foregone conclusion when it comes to this man. He glances up at Sherlock to clarify: "B flat, then?"

"Obviously."

Right. Obviously. Obviously.

He's pieced it together in no time at all while sucking on a reed, and then in a flurry of movement, Sherlock has another score balancing on a second pair of stands, has produced a violin out of thin air, and has readied his bow.

His movements are dramatic and beautiful to watch, like an accomplished stage magician or a dancer.  
Then they play.

The piece is a series of variations on what John supposes is an original theme. It's strikingly direct, but as they progress, the variations become more and more fiendishly difficult. John's instincts guide him well, and he maintains his place, even though he's sometimes obliged to sacrifice accuracy. The music is fast and complicated and exciting, and he can feel the pulse of his blood singing in his veins.

When they reach the end of the written score, Sherlock unexpectedly introduces another variation. John is thrown for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. He's already been extemporising a bit to avoid getting left behind as it is, so it's not a complete shock to the system.

They continue in that manner for a while, and John leads a development or two of his own as well. It's not really the sort of collaboration he would have expected from a classical musician, but he's having a good time... In fact, if modern classical music were like this more often, he might not have been so eager to give it up.

When they eventually finish with a final reprise of the original theme, they are both breathless; giddy with accomplishment and easy camaraderie. John takes his cue from Sherlock when he puts away his instrument, and he begins to clean up after himself as well.

Sherlock flops onto his sofa, eyes closed, and groans theatrically. "That was magnificent. You have no idea just how thoroughly it would have horrified my brother."

John suspects he might, actually. It's been years since he and Harry came out to their parents ("Harry's gay, I'm bisexual and, by the way, I'd rather play jazz than classical") and his dad is still wondering where he went wrong, having failed to instil within him a love of Mozart.

He hovers for a moment, observing Sherlock's prone form, but having gauged the measure of his host's social skills (as close to none as makes no odds), he resolves to look after himself, studiously ignoring any potential awkwardness. He picks his way through to the kitchen, calling out as he goes.

"Tea?"

"Black, two sugars, please. It's in the pantry."

John finds teabags in the pantry, clothes pegs in the sugar bowl, and sugar—finally—in the pantry by the tea. The milk in the fridge is out of date, so John makes his black as well.

"Not a conventional pair of instruments, violin and clarinet," he remarks, as he sets down Sherlock's tea on the coffee table. "Did you compose for them specifically?"

Sherlock just looks at him. John supposes he means that of course he wrote specifically for those instruments, and obviously he did it on account of inviting John to play with him. The apposite contrast in tonal quality should have made that evident, John – I had thought that you might not be quite such a complete idiot as everyone else, but you disappoint me after all.

"I looked you up on the internet, you know," says John: "custom compositions to suit your clients' needs, even if they're not clever enough to ask for the right thing themselves. How can you know? And why would anyone commission anything if you won't write what they ask for?"

"I knew what you needed," Sherlock returns. "I knew you'd keep up."

That's flattering, John supposes, and not too far off the mark. "But how did you even know I played? You saw my thumb callus? Might not have meant clarinet. And even then, I might not have been any good."

"Don't you see?" asks Sherlock. "You deduced my own instrument easily enough."

"I didn't, in the end," John feels compelled to point out. "And the shortlist was pretty obvious, given what I saw."

"All of it was obvious, given what I saw. That's it, you know: people always look, but they don't see. You don't even see when you look at yourself:

"Medical Corps mug in your office, military haircut, uniform tan." Sherlock grasps John's hand, pushes up his sleeve, and holds up the arm for John to inspect. "I knew straight off that you'd been army.

"You know about the thumb callus." He runs his own thumb confirmingly over John's before releasing his hand.

"Established through frequent, prolonged irritation. You must have kept playing on tour, so army band. Clarinet or oboe? Oboes can't be tuned, so tuning fork on your desk says clarinet.

"That's another story there: you went to a rehearsal for a small ensembleinvited by a colleagueleft your fork behind, and had it returned to you at work because you didn't join the group. Classical, yes?

John nods, and Sherlock continues: "You've exposure to classical musicians, going by your deductions about me; classically trained to start with, but you're ignorant of the current scene, or you'd've known about me from the start. Digital radio on your desk betrays your preference: it's set to Jazz FM.

"Bit of a shot in the dark assuming you could play as well as I hoped, but you seemed less stupid than most. Good breadth of experience, and your interest in jazz was suggestive of decent improvisation."

"Amazing!" thinks John. Though he can see—from the slightly upturned corners of Sherlock's mouth—that he's done his thinking aloud thing again.

"I'm looking for a flatmate," Sherlock says incongruously. Then, more to the point, he explains: "And you hate your flat. You don't keep much personal detritus at the clinic—your army service showing, no doubt—but your radio and your mug—in the office, not the tea room—say you don't like going home. You use them when you stay back late, not when you're at lunch or seeing patients, and you do it often enough to be prepared.

"If it's a shitty flat, you can't afford better without a flatmate, or you would have moved. If you hate the company, you need a different flatmate. Either you don't actually know anyone—unlikely—or you're difficult to live with—probable. I've found that music can be a sticking point, but I'm sure we could tolerate that in each other. Are you interested?"

John hesitates. He thinks of his professional scruples, and observes wryly that he will definitely be passing Sherlock off to a different doctor. On the other hand, he really does hate his flat, and Sherlock has so far been the complete opposite of boring.

"Oh, come on!" cries Sherlock. "I see no problem. You're not my doctor; you told me I wouldn't need a follow-up. And we have an independent musical acquaintance now, anyway."

John laughs. "You're really something else," he says. "All right. All right, I'll think about it. But I hope you were planning on clearing out some of this mess. I don't think I'd even fit into your flat at the moment."


	2. I Don't Eat When I'm Playing

One Saturday morning, just about when John thinks he's finally getting the hang of living with Sherlock, he stumbles downstairs in his dressing gown, and registers sleeping people in the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" asks the man, as he looks up blearily.

John recognises his face, and the woman's too, from the previous day's news report.

"Fuck me," he protests.

He feels Sherlock approaching from behind even before the touch of a hand on his elbow. Senses his presence long before Sherlock speaks, but still twitches at the disturbance.

"Easy, John," says Sherlock, his sleep-deepened voice betraying no little amusement. "We have company."

"That's rather the point," protests John, sagging against the doorframe. "I wasn't prepared to entertain New Scotland Yard in my pants and dressing gown this morning."

The woman eyes him critically as she sits up on the sofa. "Well, I'll be," she says. "Freak really did get himself a flatmate."

Her emphasis on the word 'flatmate' is unfathomable. John looks back at her for a moment, and then beats a strategic retreat to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on.

Two days later when he is even more properly startled by a human foot in the fridge, Sherlock explains that every so often he will attend a pub quiz night with NSY, fail miserably at answering trivia (boggle at the useless and irrelevant things people know, is how he puts it), and then pump his contacts for practical shortcomings in contemporary forensic techniques. If he's inspired, he'll research the problems using body parts from the morgue at St Bart's for testing. Apparently he publishes articles in forensic chemistry journals when he needs a break from the artistic grind.

John has words with him about food safety, chemical safety and pathology, and resigns himself to yet another of his flatmate's idiosyncrasies.

* * *

Unpleasant surprises aside, flat-sharing with Sherlock's actually a lot of fun. John's favourite days are when he comes home from the clinic and Sherlock is feeling expansively creative. He will play while John sits down with a cuppa, and then they will improvise together. (Sherlock will name a key to get him started, because unlike certain mad geniuses of his acquaintance, he doesn't have perfect pitch.) Or alternatively, Sherlock will hand him some sheet music and they will play around with that. Later, John will feel pleased when he recognises snatches of their sessions that make it into Sherlock's published works. He's started paying more attention to classical music again, now that he has a more personal connection. Sherlock doesn't always compose that way, but they both enjoy the process when he does.

Even so, John knows exactly what Sherlock meant when he said that he found music to be a sticking point for flatmates. Sometimes he will scrape away at his violin—some kind of modern atonal cacophony—or maybe it's just random scraping; John doesn't know—and won't let up until the small hours of the morning. It seems to happen most often when he's itching for a new commission, and this is an observation that has given John an unexpected appreciation for the intrusion of prospective clients into the sanctuary of his sitting room.

Occasionally Sherlock picks up a new job without even the slightest hint of melodrama, such as a new solo piece for the violist Julia Adler. Sherlock politely informs her that it will be ready in a matter of weeks. John has some input into the resulting composition, and they turn out a piece that has experimental influences derived from his love of jazz.

Other times, Sherlock is unaccountably difficult. Esperanza Jeffries puts Sherlock on the warpath right from the beginning. She's barely even entered the flat before he's looked her up and down and decided "Boring! Go away."

She doesn't go away.

Sherlock flounces off to recline artfully on the sofa, calling out as he goes:

"John! Fetch the tea, will you?"

John figures that he might as well brew some tea to make up for Sherlock's outstanding rudeness. But when he brings it out, the superior and pitying expression he catches on the young woman's face makes him all of a sudden less inclined to make things easier for her.

Vindictively intending to leave her to her fate, he's barely shifted his weight when Sherlock sits up with an evil gleam in his eye.

"Stay, John."

So. He wants an audience... Should be interesting. John does his best to radiate an air of mild and inoffensive curiosity.

Sherlock dumps four teaspoons of sugar into her tea without stopping to ask if she'd like any at all. Then he glares at her as if daring her not to drink it. He waits silently until she starts to speak again, presumably for the sole purpose of being able to interrupt:

"You are a Classicist. You like sweet and frilly things, and all the florid gilt of Vienna. You disdain symmetrical restraint and counterpoint on the one hand, and fear dramatic tension on the other. You like kittens and pink. I cannot think of anything that could be more facile or mind-numbing than producing the neo-Classical commission that you are planning to ask of me."

He picks up his violin and plays a superbly sarcastic rendition of 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star', inching closer and closer into her personal space. "Don't even think of coming back, unless by some miracle you develop enough intelligence to appreciate proper music," he suggests.

This time she does go. Sherlock nonchalantly puts his violin back in its case. "What a repulsive woman," he remarks loudly.

"You do realise that everything you said to her is also true of Molly-at-the-morgue, don't you?" ventures John.

Sherlock remains unmoved. "Not quite. Molly likes Tchaikovsky—sentimental, I grant you, but not without substance—and dead bodies, and she has half a decent brain in her head. Besides, did you see the way she looked at you?"

John is reminded of the episode some time later when Sherlock's brother Mycroft suggests that he and Sherlock might play something together "for Mummy's birthday." The feeling of déjà vu is not least reinforced on account of the blatantly condescending assessment that he is subjected to.

"Just be glad he hasn't kidnapped you yet," says Sherlock, and John rolls his eyes disbelievingly.

It's a certain class of unusual client that Sherlock seems to live for, though. Max Altman is one of them: an amateur Bach scholar and musician who's built his own harpsichord. He asks for a collection of recherché conundrums based on an original theme to be developed by Sherlock; something for him to tease out of a Sunday morning to keep his mind sharp in his retirement from an academic career in theoretical physics. The notion has Sherlock rubbing his hands with glee, and John is spared from petulant expressions of boredom for a whole two months while he works on the project. He feels awed and privileged to witness the creation of the intricate, Baroque-inspired masterpiece.

* * *

John is working his way through a series of technical studies in the sitting room one afternoon when Sherlock strides in through the front door, with paper bags in his hand.

"Sandwich?" he offers, as he begins to chew through one of his own. Even performing such a mundane act as eating a sandwich, he is compelling. He paces the length of the room, moving with grace. He bites his sandwich; he holds out a bag. His gestures and attitudes are striking compositions of shape and form.

John is surprised by his uncharacteristic consideration, but declines nevertheless. "You know I don't eat while I'm playing," he says, "but thanks. I'll get it later when I'm done."

"Won't be any good later," says Sherlock. "There's melted cheese."

John puts down his clarinet suspiciously, and pulls out his cleaning cloth. He almost says that Sherlock could have just asked if he'd wanted a break from John's practising, but then he doesn't. If Sherlock's inclined to try out some generosity to get his way from time to time, then John's not going to say anything to discourage that.

It doesn't surprise him when Sherlock picks up on his cynical train of thought. "Yes, of course I could have asked you to stop, but I don't just need to think; I need you in a good mood. I've been working on a new commission."

He thrusts some pages of music at John, who doesn't pick them up. He's eating his sandwich, after all.

In the end, they clear off the coffee table and lay out the pages.

"Clarinet concerto for the Docklands Sinfonia. What do you think?"

John lets out a low whistle. "Good God," he says. "You must really hate the clarinettist; what did he do? Run off with your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend? No, not my area."

"So, your boyfriend, maybe?

"Which is fine," he adds, at the same time as Sherlock starts to answer him. "It's all fine," he says lamely.

But what Sherlock has said is this: "No, no, I consider myself more as being married to my art."

"Just your ordinary garden-variety wanker, then," concludes John.

"I suppose so." Sherlock looks uncharacteristically thrown. "I understand convention forbids discussion, though."

What's that? Then suddenly John understands. Oh. "Oh, sorry. No; I meant the clarinettist. Bit of an arse, I meant to say."

"Not at all. The orchestra also engaged me to find their soloist for them: I wrote this piece with a very particular friend in mind."

"Another genius!" exclaims John. "Not Mycroft; you said 'friend', after all, and he's a pianist in any case. Do you have another brother I haven't met yet? A sister? I expect it'd take a Holmes or the devil himself to handle this."

"Hardly," says Sherlock pointedly. "You sell yourself short. You've played most of it before, you know; I've transcribed from recordings. It's all yours, if you want it."

John suspects that he might be blushing. Not very manly, he regrets. His voice has a slight strangled quality to it as he asks, "A dear friend of yours, you say?"

"A particular friend, is what I said. But, yes. He is rather dear to me."

"I can't play it, though!"

John tries to panic quietly on the inside, but finds that he can't contain himself. "I'm not a virtuoso... Sherlock, what have you done? Do you even have a backup plan? It won't be what your orchestra needs if you can't get anyone who can play the solo. It's not strictly what they asked for, either, is it? Shit. Fuck."

Sherlock interrupts.

"John! Stop. Breathe. Did you not hear me at all just now? I've heard you play it. You'll get there. I know you can keep up."

'Oh, please, God,' thinks John.


	3. The Most Ridiculous Thing

John seethes at the metronome. He's set it down to semi-quavers, and is struggling to nail Sherlock's fantastically convoluted rhythms. John's own rhythms, Sherlock has reminded him often enough, but the thing is that John's timing, when it comes down to hemi-demi-semi-fucking quintuplet notes and the like, is pretty much unique to any given moment.

He's not an anarchist. He sees the need for an established beat; for a sturdy framework on which to build; for structure, in a word. But how utterly boring when everything to the last eye blink is preordained by that structure. It's why he quit the army: in the end, even the contingencies were too pre-scripted for John. Because John is intuitive. He likes to feel a situation; to register its quality subconsciously. He does his best work when he's free to depart from systematic deliberation. If he lets ideas and information brew in his mind, he sees overarching pictures pieced together without quite understanding how they got there, but they are usually very _good_ pictures.

So while he will admit that structure is... OK, _necessary_, he reads emotion and intent better than he reads musical notation. It's why he likes jazz. It's why he has so much sympathy for Sherlock's extreme lack of conventionality. It's also why he is just about ready to throw plates at the wall, because the music that must have felt completely natural to play when he was mucking around with Sherlock at some point in the past is no longer the music of the moment. The notes on the page are a constricting form of emotional micromanagement. It's just as well that Sherlock has intended for him to improvise the cadenzas as he pleases; the demanding solos are by far the least of his worries.

John takes a leaf out of Sherlock's own book when he sees his flatmate coming into the room, and vents his frustration with a graceless ear-shattering squawk.

"Sherlock!" he demands. "We're going out. You're going to tell me why I need to play this piece, and then, if I believe you, you're going to tell me how."

They take their coats and go.

* * *

In the end, the why that John believes is that it will make his friend happy (not that Sherlock says so, in as many words), and the how is with more practice. Sherlock does admit that he's created rather more stress for John than he'd intended, but maintains that he is eminently capable of playing very well indeed if he chooses to go ahead with the engagement.

Now John is practising with renewed intent. He's shelved the metronome for a time, and has been listening to Sherlock's recordings. He's identified sources for a lot of the difficult passages, and re-imagines himself playing them. He doesn't exactly recreate lost moments or bygone emotions, but he remembers, and it helps. He begins to really believe that he can do justice to Sherlock's expectations.

He'll be quite happy to go back to his thoroughly amateur tootling when it's all over, though.

* * *

It's a strange feeling being the centre of attention; one that John's never sought out, and one that he'd actually prefer to avoid where possible. He's never seen the point of being singled out just because people put more weight on his talents than others'; the inequality of it makes him acutely uncomfortable.

Right now, however—playing under the heated glare of the spotlight—ignoring the intense and impersonal scrutiny of an invisible crowd is just one challenge among many as he rides on the tremendous, unsteady wave of his success at nailing each and every passage with aplomb. Every passing moment adds to the thrill of pulling off a potentially flawless endeavour, but also makes the prospect of erring all the more terrifying. He briefly remembers back to the first time he played with Sherlock—he's buoyed by the same adrenaline and excitement now as he had been then—but he dismisses the reminiscence quickly; all his attention is required in the present moment.

As the conductor leads the orchestra into the final major chord—a Picardy third—John's spirit soars elatedly from the wonder of having contributed to such an amazing creation, with a lightness that comes from having the pressure of performance lifted from him. He's so keyed up that he doesn't really register the audience's applause, even as he goes through the motions of acknowledging it. His exit back into the wings, the unremarkable business of packing away his things; everything's pretty much performed on automatic pilot while his mind buzzes gleefully, until he's standing beside Sherlock at the reception, holding a flute of fizzing champagne.

Sherlock is pleased in a whole different way, soaking up praise and admiration for his own brilliance, and John's besides. John's rarely seen him so delighted as when in receipt of intelligently conceived approbation. In the end, it's unfortunate that there's not more of it. And, for that matter, it's also unfortunate that there's not more to Sherlock's ability to read a social situation than his inclination to decide very quickly whether or not it interests him. He snubs a reporter whom he deems too lacking in intelligence to be granted an interview: "Would you believe, John, that he referred to the concerto as a 'song'!" and shamelessly manipulates a young dancer into presenting him to her grandfather—a talented choreographer—who will "no doubt be wanting to write a ballet for her soon given her innate expressiveness, impeccable line, and imminent promotion to principal dancer with the Royal Ballet". (Since John's sure that the arrangement will actually be beneficial for all concerned, he doesn't remark on Sherlock's horribly false grin or his contrived air of bonhomie as he negotiates the commission of some original ballet music.)

He is admittedly very gracious and sincere in his refusal to collaborate with an erstwhile accompanist, despite the fellow's odd idea that he and Sherlock have some sort of spiritual bond grown from the music they've previously played together.

"Transcendent, yes," concedes Sherlock, "but now thoroughly in the past. These days I'm investigating new and different possibilities with John."

And finally, based on previous experience, John's not surprised at his immediate onset of sulkiness when they're confronted by Mycroft. To be honest, the man's urbane politeness also makes John feel tight around the collar.

"Dr Watson. A well-played performance." John inclines his head cautiously in answer to Mycroft's gesture.

"Mycroft."

"And Sherlock. You will of course remember Mr James, our piano tutor from when we were younger."

Sherlock's attention is clearly elsewhere, but a short, sharp jab from John's elbow brings him back to the here and now.

"Of course," he says without quite engaging, though he does shake Mr James's proffered hand.

"It's a pleasure to see one of my most promising students doing so well," says Mr James. "Though I'm sure you'll permit me some disappointment that you haven't kept up with my subject." He shares some superior and commiserating eye-contact with Mycroft. "Do consider me if you decide to return to your roots."

Sherlock considers him speculatively for a moment and nods, before announcing his more immediate intentions. "It's about time we thought of leaving, actually, though it's been as pleasant as it ever is. Mycroft. Mr James."

Of course it's not as easy as simply walking out of the function room if one has any sense of protocol, which means that while Sherlock stalks out directly, it takes somewhat longer for John to join him outside. It's late and bitterly cold by the time he does, and although he had ridden dizzily on the high of the successful performance for several hours, he is by now feeling ready to keel over, preferably right into his bed. Unfortunately, Sherlock's usual taxi-hailing prowess seems to have deserted him. As a result, John is actually relieved when he observes the near-silent approach of Mycroft's black car. He tugs on Sherlock's sleeve, intending to accept the implicit offer, but Sherlock never does make life easy.

"Bloody Mycroft," he says, and races off in the opposite direction. John is too muddled with drowsiness to let go of his coat, and is dragged along after him. Mycroft's driver executes a smooth turn and follows.

John marvels at Sherlock's confident sense of direction as he leads them racing through alleyways, parks and one-way streets, coat tails flapping behind them. John's clarinet case bangs into his shin with every stride, but immersed in the moment he barely notices. The two of them quickly lose their pursuer, but John soon realises the car isn't going to stay shaken for long. It follows, they lose it, and then it turns up again, disingenuously idling as they round another corner. It's just as well that John catches his second wind, because they end up running the whole way back to Baker Street.

When they arrive, they slam the door shut behind them and collapse giggling against the wall.

"That," wheezes John, "has got to be the most ridiculous thing Mycroft's ever done."

Sherlock looks as though he is about to make a particularly scathing reply, but there is a knock on the door before he actually says anything. John sees no harm in going to open it, and is not surprised to note the black car parked out on the street.

The man at the door says, "Telegram," hands over a folded sheet of paper, and returns to the car. It drives away.

John catches Sherlock's eye, and they are once again overcome with giggles.

"I didn't even know that telegrams still even existed!" says John.

He opens it shortly afterwards while brewing tea in their preferred mugs, and then waits for his brain to catch up to his eyes. It doesn't happen: he can't make sense of the message at all.

YOUR K9 BLOWS STOP CONSIDER PIANO ABOVE

The tea's not done yet, and Sherlock's flopped himself down on the sofa, so John hollers out from the kitchen. "Sherlock," he calls, watching through the glass doors. "Sherlock! I think you'll want to have a look at this yourself."

"I hardly think so." Sherlock demonstrates his lack of enthusiasm by leaving his face smooshed into the armrest. "Mycroft's not worth the waste of time. Just throw it out."

"Is it worth your time if it's a death threat disguised as a cryptic crossword clue?" asks John. "Talk about upsetting Mummy." Disturbingly, Sherlock actually seems pleased at the prospect. "That is new," he says, sitting up when John comes through with

their drinks. "Hand it over then."

John hands it over, and sits down in his chair.

Sherlock peruses the telegram intently.

"It's not from Mycroft," he says eventually. "He'd never be so vulgar, even if he did succumb to the nostalgic kitsch of obsolete technology. And speaking of kitsch, John, I need you to go and fetch me the Mozart juvenilia. I put it in your room."

"Is it really a death threat? Jesus. You should tell those friends of yours from the Yard."

"You know I have a better chance of figuring it out than they do, John. The Mozart, if you please."

John heads for the stairs, and mourns his share of the rapidly disappearing tenancy deposit as he sees Sherlock skewer the telegram to the wall with a knife.

* * *

"How is this even my life," mutters John when he realises it's only mildly surprising, and not outrageously unthinkable (as it jolly well should be), that his bed has been replaced with a battered-looking upright piano. A piano stool has also been ever so generously provided.

Well. If unexpected circumstances have all of a sudden caused a sharp drop in his willingness to continue playing along with Sherlock's caprice, is there anyone who'd blame him? He stumps back down the stairs, tells Sherlock to go and have a look for himself, and then locks himself in Sherlock's room and climbs into his bed. He tells himself he doesn't feel bad about it, because it's almost certainly all Sherlock's fault in the first place. Case in point: Sherlock is tinkering relentlessly and unmusically upstairs.

Very unmusically. The piano clearly hasn't been tuned since its delivery, and John wouldn't be surprised to hear that its relocation had begun with a good, hard shove out the third floor window of its previous location.


	4. Not a Very Nice Piano

John ventures back into his bedroom after completing his morning ablutions, and he's not altogether surprised when Sherlock materialises so close behind him that John can feel his breath tickling the back of his ear.

"Morning, John."

His voice is immoderately loud, John thinks irritably, and far too keyed up for the early hour. Probably his brain's not stopped rattling over the details of his new obsession since he latched onto it last night. That's fine, and he's bound to reveal something remarkable and exciting in due course, but John's still in his dressing gown, and he'd rather not be when Sherlock goes racing out the door after the next irresistible lead. He starts pulling clothes out of his drawers and wardrobe while Sherlock, predictably, makes his way over to the piano.

"Listen to this."

John relaxes muscles he hadn't even realised he'd tensed when Sherlock presses a single chipped white key in the middle of the keyboard. He's about to tell him that he's quite welcome to explain the point of the exercise, only please _after_ he's left John alone for a moment to change into some proper clothes, when an almighty crash startles him out of his complacency.

Not only is the sound of the impact genuinely startling, but his musician's empathy is outraged by the deep and splintered dent that Sherlock's inflicted on the piano frame.

"Christ, Sherlock! What the hell was that?"

"Concert A. Obviously. Your tuning fork. Now listen to this."

He presses the A key again, and John is less than unsurprised that it doesn't match the sustained ringing of the fork.

"Yes, all right. The piano's wildly out of tune. I think I got that last night when you kept trying to play the damn thing." He pulls the cord on his dressing gown tight, and then takes hold of Sherlock's forearm to push him towards the door and out of his room.

Sherlock allows himself to be propelled as far as the door frame, but lodges himself against it. "And what else?" he prompts. "Sharp or flat, John?"

Still grasping Sherlock's arm, John is distracted by how pleasantly warm and vital he feels. It occurs to him that he could so very easily insert himself right into Sherlock's personal space and lean himself against his very attractive friend, but even though Sherlock's disdain for social cues and conventions would probably preclude his protesting, John's had no indication that he would actually welcome such an advance. In any case, he's still waiting for John to catch up with his fevered chain of deduction, so it's hardly the best moment for that kind of thinking.

"Sharp. Obviously." John delivers Sherlock's favourite word with as much irony as he can muster, while barely managing not to lean his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Look, just... Sherlock, I need you to get out for a moment. I'll be dressed soon enough, and then—fine—we can talk about destroying pianos."

"It wasn't a very nice piano, anyway," says Sherlock dismissively. John wonders whether he should feel more ashamed than he does on account of completely agreeing.

Sherlock continues: "But that's irrelevant in any case. How can you be so slow, John? You listen, but you don't _hear_."

"That may be so," allows John. "But _you_ don't even listen. Go on; get out! I'll only need five minutes."

He gives an illustrative shove, and finally Sherlock condescends to exit the room.

It's not long before Sherlock returns with a marker pen and perches himself back on the piano stool. John comes over to hover behind him.

"A sharp. Piano," says Sherlock, punctuating his observation by depressing the A4 key again, and then the A5. The second A is even sharper than the first.

Next, Sherlock plays A5 and D6: a perfect perfect fourth. He unapologetically marks both of them with a number '1', using his pen. John cringes.

"It could have got sharp as a result of autumn humidity if it was last tuned in summer or late spring, but then the central notes would be sharper than the peripheral ones. Also, it's actually mostly flat."

He thwacks the piano again with John's tuning fork, and plays the A3. John can't help himself from flinching at the impact. Nonetheless he concedes that the note is, indeed, pretty flat.

"Of the order of two whole tones," supplies Sherlock. "As are most of the other keys. So we can infer that the instrument probably hasn't been tuned for a long time, and was possibly transported quite roughly. It certainly doesn't look like it's been well-looked after. But if that were true, we'd expect all of the notes to be flat...

"Consider. Piano. Above—it has to be a message."

Next, Sherlock plays three keys together that span quite a large range. "These notes are all tuned to the same standard as each other, but not with respect to any other keys. And, again, they're sharp." He marks each of them with a number '2'.

"As are these." He plays and then marks another trio of keys with number '3's.

"One more set—five of them, this time—and then the rest are flat."

"AD, BGE, DFG and EFEFA. F sharps, of course. What does it _mean_?"

"Some kind of cipher?" suggests John. "Something to do with the telegram? K9... How about the order they occur in that Mozart score you wanted? Or Old MacDonald had a farm; the letters on that last one look a lot like ei-ei-o." The thought involuntarily provokes him into making an odd noise something like a cross between a snort and a giggle.

"Yes, yes, yes, no and God, no." Sherlock gestures to the Mozart score that he's dug out from wherever he's hidden it—_in John's room_—and explains:

"Mozart's Sonata in G for Keyboard and Violin; Köchel number 9. It's a simple substitution cipher. This is the lower end of the piece's range—he draws a long vertical line down the length of a low B—and this is the upper—he draws another line down the D6 that he marked earlier. Then he scrawls out a letter of the alphabet on each note in the key of G major starting from the bottom line, and continues with the numerals '1' to '5' up to the second line.

Finally he pulls out a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket on which he's already solved the message. Melodramatic bastard.

"In order of increasing sharpness: 'DEKSU, AMR, 25, COT'." Still doesn't make much sense, but our encryptor's been clever so far, so we can assume a unique correct solution."

John can already see what Sherlock's come up with, which is:

DUKES – RAM – 25 – OCT

so he's not really guessing when he picks up the thread of the deduction. "Right. So if there's only one right way to read the number, it's probably a date: you can have the 25th of the month but not the 52nd. And if that's true, 'C-O-T' has got to be October."

He stops to consider the first two groups of letters again before going on.

"I can't think of any way to make number 4 spell a word that isn't 'Dukes', which sounds kind of pub-like. The 'Duke's Arms' would be plausible, but one 'Duke's Arm''s unlikely. It looks like the best bet is Duke's Hall at the Academy.

"I'm guessing you found a piano recital on the 25th?"

"Quite. You're not playing that night, so I've reserved seats for both of us: K9 and K10. Figured it couldn't hurt."

John seeks to clarify: "You don't think it's a bomb threat, then?"

"Who can say? It's a mistake to theorise in advance of data."

"Right. Well. At least we can probably rule out someone trying to smite me from above with a piano?"

"I suppose that was meant to be a joke," Sherlock muses thoughtfully. "But best to be on the alert, regardless."

Not an encouraging assessment. But when John looks up the programme for the upcoming concert, he concedes that the threat of danger might well be the necessary incentive to keep him awake throughout the deadly dull line-up of early nineteenth century composers.

* * *

The soporific strains of classical piano music that have been washing over them for the past hour finally come to a close, and Sherlock immediately brightens, having fidgeted restlessly all the way through Haydn and most of Mozart. John was similarly unenthralled, but has had concert etiquette drilled into his person far too thoroughly to have been comfortable with expressing his boredom as openly.

While Sherlock is taking advantage of the interval to investigate further afield, John gingerly reaches under his seat (K10; Sherlock had been bemused by his stubborn refusal to take K9, but he'd been insistent). Given the nature of the puzzle that's led them to be there, and the fact that he's recognised the pianist, he isn't all that surprised to find a short note:

Clever enough to reconsider?

Hopefully,

J

A lot politer than he might have expected, and though it's a bit anticlimactic as an outcome, it's doubtless better than a death threat or a bomb. He sidles past other concert-goers who've opted to remain seated, and hands the note to Sherlock when he finds him, pleased that they now have an excuse to leave before the second half of the concert.

"That's not your writing," says Sherlock.

John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock never states the obvious.

"Must be that Jeffries woman who's playing tonight. Classicist; boring. Obvious play on words with her name. Why do you have a note from her? Did she ask you on a date? You could do better than that."

"Sherlock, it was hidden under my seat. Does that not mean anything to you? K10? Presumably the seat you were going to insist on if you figured out the piano clue?"

"How extraordinarily odd. Why on earth would _Jeffries_ send such a convoluted and inconvenient message?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you categorically insulted her taste and then impugned her intelligence as a poorly-mannered excuse to refuse her commission?"

"If we've seen her before, then of course I insulted her taste. It's saccharine and trite. I must have deleted her. Did she really request a commission? Your new piano suggests her brain's wasted on Mozart, but she wouldn't have liked anything I'd have written anyway."

"Unbelievable. I can't believe you just _deleted_ a whole person like that. You'd better let her know you're not interested right away if you're planning to do it again. Good Christ...

"Actually, you'd better tell Greg that you know who broke into the flat and stole my bed as well. I'm really quite keen to have it back, you know."

"I can't see why," Sherlock grumbles sulkily. He always does want to have the last word.


	5. I Don't Have Friends

John can hear the rise and fall of conversation in the sitting room while he putters quietly over breakfast in the kitchen. Sherlock's getting loud and indignant while Sally snipes and Lestrade demands that he explain his deductions.

"Of course it's not the boy's father! Did you even look at the turn-ups on his jeans? I don't suppose anyone's thought of looking at the uncle's tailoring business... the real mystery is how the Yard ever manages to solve a case—there's ample evidence here in one photo from the paper, and I can't imagine what you're all ignoring every day at crime scenes. You're all as dull as daytime telly."

Lestrade groans; there's frustration mixed in with appreciation as he asks, "Ever think of throwing over the music for a career at the Yard?"

"Boring!" declaims Sherlock. "All rules, routine and paperwork. My brain would rot." The sound of pages being turned during a lull in the conversation is loud enough for John to hear over the sizzle of bacon, and then Sherlock's talking again.

"Anyway; listen to this:

Not yet two years old, the Docklands Sinfonia has drawn much critical acclaim as an emergent force in the world of classical music. It was joined last Friday by guest soloist John Watson for the world premiere of Sherlock Holmes's clarinet concerto in B Flat Minor—The Homecoming—a work that was written especially for the orchestra's partnership with this soloist, who is a dear friend of the composer.

Initially a student of London's Royal College of Music, Watson decided early on in his career to focus on his interest in jazz, only to disappear from the musical scene altogether not long afterwards. It would seem that music lovers have Holmes to thank not only for his latest composition—by turns poignant and rousing—but also for the opportunity to witness Watson's magnificent performance..."

"He's not really your friend, you know," says Sally impatiently. "Not just because the papers say he is. Some of them even say you're lovers. You can't believe everything you hear."

John wonders why Sherlock even puts up with her. Surely Greg would be an adequate contact on his own; as a DI he's more likely to have useful information than his sergeant anyway. Thankfully it's not long before he hears the door shut firmly behind them—not quite a slam, but forceful enough to be satisfying.

When the bacon's done, he brings out two plates of a full English, and calls out to Sherlock.

"Grub's up."

Sherlock hesitates slightly, as though he knows that John has more to say, and is just waiting for him to get it over with.

So John does. "I know you thought it was stupid, but I'm glad you told them about Jeffries. Have you sent her a proper refusal yet?"

Sherlock huffs impatiently, but hands over his phone, which is opened to the message archive.

Well played, but no joy -SH

I stand by my refusal -SH

Be a chum and reconsider -Exx

No -SH You need to lighten up -Exx

It's not quite the last of it, John knows: they still have to get rid of the ridiculous piano, and he's still sleeping on a roll-out mattress—but it's a good step in the right direction.

"You heard what they said," observes Sherlock in a neutral tone. "It's true, I suppose... I've never been a good friend. Too obsessive—look at the stress I've put you through. I don't even know how to have proper friends like you do."

John is shocked that Sherlock's openly admitting vulnerability. It's perhaps the surest sign he really does care about John, if not about anyone else.

"Of course I don't have friends," replies John easily. "Can you imagine? I have one really good friend, and that's you. I swear, if I had any more it'd completely wear me out. There's no point listening to what Sally says; you know you can't believe everything you hear."

Sherlock gives in to a small smile at that, and sits down to join him for breakfast.

* * *

"I didn't hate it, you know," John says, apropos of Sherlock sulking on the sofa later that afternoon. Sherlock doesn't even blink an eyelid.

There are several piles of papers stacked on John's armchair, which he could quite easily move, but instead he manhandles Sherlock's bare feet out of the way so he can sit down beside him.

"You know you're brilliant," says John.

Sherlock just kicks his legs back out so they extend over John's lap.

"And you know I love your music."

He pokes at the feet resting on his legs, but Sherlock won't be moved. Giving in, he begins to knead at one of them a bit distractedly. The activity keeps him from thinking too closely about the sentiment in what he's saying. What he's not saying, actually, because it's all rather awkward, but what he thinks Sherlock needs to hear.

He squeezes his fingers around Sherlock's impossibly high arch. "You're important. To me. You are a good friend; I hope we'll be together for a long time." John flounders; that was possibly more revealing than he'd intended.

"I mean, I know you said you're married to your art, but... No. Sorry. Sorry. I'll just..."

John's face has grown warm. He can't bear to look Sherlock in the eye, because he knows he's been stupid. Instead, he gets up to go and walk off his embarrassment, resolutely placing Sherlock's feet back on the sofa.

But Sherlock snaps up from his languid sprawl with astonishing speed. His thin arm snakes out to grasp John's wrist.

"Pay no mind to it, John; for years the work was all I had. I could be persuaded to change my mind."

And this time, Sherlock's drawing John towards him physically. Closer and closer and closer: impossibly close. His lips are warm. Sherlock's body leaning into him is warm. They fit together beautifully, and John feels like he's finally found home.


End file.
